“His badge is…gone” Holt said softly. “I checked myself and it’s gone. Everything else…I believe, is there. We took pictures before we moved him for the rectal thermometer, but I’m positive that’s where the wallet was when we arrived at the scene. I looked in it…found money, credit cards, but no badge. I put it back exactly where it was found”.
Turner grunted, shaking his head as he looked at the feet, the way they were turned, and again at the body. It appeared that it had fallen on its chest and the right hand was under the body, the left extended upwards, close to the black hat. He reached for the corpse, lifting him slightly with a grunt. His nose turned in disgust as the sharp smell of urine and human feces got to him. He shook his head and pulled harder on the fast cooling body. The hand was on the grip of the pistol, still in its holster, but unbuttoned, meaning that he had realized that something was amiss, had reached for his pistol and was killed a second after. He had seen the killer, even if only momentarily, or had heard a noise, turning his body around halfway, probably in an attempt to see what was coming from behind. But it had been too late. Whatever had come from behind him had been fast, way too fast for him, putting a very abrupt end to his life.
He glanced at the head and then at the blood spatter on the snow. In all probability, the killer had come from behind, taking the head off with one blow. The arterial blood had gushed up and away from the body every time the heart pumped, covering a big area. He looked closely in the expanse of snow that was covered with blood, finding no footprints on the blood splatter. If the killer had come from behind, then it was likely he had not gotten any blood spatters on him, or maybe he had managed to jump away from the body, succeeding in not leaving any prints on top of the blood. ‘So, what do we have here? a very…careful killer?’, he asked himself, shaking his head slowly.
Turner stood up in one swift move, his head turning and looking at the trampled snow just behind the body, in the direction from which the killer had probably come. His eyes rested on the snow, trying to make sense of what he was looking at. He moved to the car, to the driver’s side, eyes fixed on the ground, staying away from the footprints. He could see where Dunbar had stepped away from the car, coming around, heading for the gate at the back of the driveway. He had been killed just a step away from the back gate and Turner could see the imprint of his shoes clearly until that moment when he was hit. He was a big man, heavy and the imprint of his large shoes was clear in the soft snow. He had been a tall man, meaning that the killer had to be as tall or taller than Dunbar, and incredibly strong to handle an ax or a machete that way, decapitating a man in a seemingly easy way. He followed Dunbar’s footprints, reaching the body. He searched the snow fleetingly, looking at what he thought were the jogger’s footprints, the one that had found the body, and he noticed the service footwear of the policeman who was first on the scene. There were a few other prints, but nothing that looked like Dunbar’s size. ‘Surely the damn killer didn’t float in the air’, he told himself, shaking his head, irritated. He glanced at the houses, which were not too close together, realizing that the killer could have been hiding in any one of them. He walked to the nearest one across the street, checking the doorway, looking for cigarette butts or anything that would give him an indication where the killer had come from. He was sure that the man had not driven to the spot. A car makes noise and Dunbar would have been alert and suspicious of a car driving close to him that late in the morning. If someone in a car had approached him, Dunbar would in all probability have turned around and watched the subject; he would not have been caught almost unaware, from behind. He had been killed with a weapon that required stealthy movements, had been killed at close range, meaning the killer had come from behind, walking. And it had to be a big man, strong and heavy in order to wield the weapon like he did. A man like that had to leave footprints, he told himself as he continued his search for clues. He looked around some more houses, his eyes on the ground, feeling the damn cold seeping slowly into his body, feeling like he was wasting his time looking for something that was not there. He made his way back empty handed, shaking his head. He had to talk to the man that had found Dunbar and then he would wait for the autopsy, but from the look of things, this one was going to be a mess. He glanced at Holt, who was bending over the body, noticing that the head had been picked up and the body covered with a blanket. The wife was gone too, probably inside the house by now. An unmarked unit made its way to the scene and he saw two of his men, Thompson and Miller, exiting the car and glancing around. He signaled for them and they made their way to him.
“Police officer…guy by the name of Dunbar”, he started, shrugging his shoulders into his overcoat as a strong gust of wind slammed into them. “Somebody took his head off…with an axe or sword or machete. There are no witnesses, no weapon left and no evidence of struggle.”
“Jesus H. Christ…” Miller exploded, his head turning toward the body, glancing at the blood stain that covered most of the driveway. “I knew him. He was not the sweetest guy you ever met…but, shit…this is crazy.”
Bob Thompson didn’t say anything, just glanced at the body, his blue eyes hooded and a frown on his face. He was forty-five years old, with more than fifteen years in the force, a quiet, dependable cop, street smart and usually a man of few words unless something needed to be said.
“Let’s do the usual. You guys know the drill. Talk to the neighbors…see if anybody has seen anything, heard anything.” Turner said.
He stopped talking, his head nodding toward where the body lay. “Somebody was waiting for him, which makes it personal…so we need to find a motive.” He paused again, taking a sip of the cold coffee now, grimacing at the taste, his forehead creased in thought. “If I have to guess, this is going to be a crime of passion…somehow. To take a man’s head off with a sword or axe involves a great deal of rage or hate, so…think about it”. He took another drag of the cigarette, glanced around and back at the two detectives. “Let’s do it.”
The two detectives nodded their heads in unison, finishing with their notes. Turner could see that they were slightly unnerved, something that he understood perfectly. He could bet that just like him, they were wondering if this was just the beginning of something new, if someone out there was declaring open season on cops. Miller and Thompson were professionals, had been around for a while, worked their share of murders and weird cases, so he knew that they would do their job no matter what and keep their personal feelings out of the case.
He found the jogger shivering, hands in his pockets, waiting. The man was a schoolteacher, out for his daily run in the neighborhood before heading for downtown Chicago. But this morning finding one of his neighbors dead, killed in a most gruesome way, shattered his daily routine. The man was dressed in a running outfit, Nike running shoes on his feet and a balaclava on his head to conserve heat, but he was still shaking and Turner deduced it wasn’t at all from the cold.
“People must be crazy…running in this fucking weather”, Turner mumbled to himself, shaking his head. He had other ways of staying in shape, but running in the cold weather was not one of them.
He glanced at the man’s shoes; encrusted with snow now, and then he made his way back to the body, examining the footprints in the snow again. Something about the prints in the snow puzzled him and he stood still, a frown on his face now. Running shoe prints were visible and he glanced at the runner standing close by. He signaled the man to come to him.
“I’m Lt. Turner, homicide”, he said and the man extended his gloved hand.
“Thomas…Thomas Goetz…sir. Good to meet…you”, the man said, his voice trembling, a nervous tic on his left eye telling Turner that the man was almost in shock. But then you don’t see people decapitated everyday, he thought, shaking his head slowly.
“What can you tell me…Mr. Goetz?” he asked softly, looking at the man’s eyes. Mr. Goetz was a tall, skinny man, and the sight of dead m
en was not something he was accustomed to seeing during his morning runs. His face was pale and his lips trembled as he tried his best to regain composure.
“I live…live two blocks down. Run this way everyday. This morning, when I came by I noticed the body…laying…laying on the ground. I…I approached it, thinking something was wrong.” He paused for a second, swallowing hard, and his prominent Adam’s apple bobbled up and down. He shook his head and continued. “That’s when I saw the head.”
Turner nodded his head in assent, a part of his mind still preoccupied with the footprints. He pulled a cigarette from his pocket, lighting it, inhaling the smoke deeply into his lungs, and giving himself time to think. He looked at the man’s shoes again, bending down close to the ground.
“Raise your foot”, he said and the man, startled, did as he was told. Turner glanced at the pattern on the man’s shoes, his eyes searching the snow in front of him for the pattern, finding it easily, close to where the body lay and then he realized that there was another pattern on the snow, a smaller one, also from running shoes. His eyes darted, seeing the footprints again, close to the body, immediately behind, mixed with the longer prints that he thought would be Goetz’.
He signaled for Goetz to approach again and the man did, stopping close to Turner. His hand went into his pocket, searching, finally giving up. He stood up, glancing around, locating Holt.
“Holt”, he called, getting the man’s attention. Holt raised his eyes to him, his left eyebrow coming up in expectation.
“A tape measure please”, Turner said and a few seconds later, a small tape measure sailed through he air, Turner catching it deftly.
“Raise your foot again”, he said and Goetz did as requested. Turner flicked the tape, measuring the shoe size. It was an eleven. He dismissed Goetz momentarily, bending down, measuring one of the footprints in the snow. It was size eleven or very close to it and he snorted, nodding his head. He measured again, this time the footprint that was smaller, size eight and this time a grin flickered on his face.
“The killer’s shoes,” he told himself softly, shaking his head slowly. “I’ll be…damned.”
He called out, “Holt…here,” and Holt Lambert raised his eyes to him, coming over.
Turner pointed at the footprints, saying, “Looks like the killer had running shoes, too.” Holt glanced at the two prints, bending down and blowing away some of the snow that had accumulated on top of them, making the prints more pronounced. The snow below had hardened some, while the top was still fluffy. It was obvious now that one print was larger than the other.
“I’ll see what I can do with this,” he said, turning his head and signaling one of the crime scene investigators over to him. They would take some pictures and maybe an identification of the shoe brand could be made. Turner kept his eyes on the shoe pattern a while longer, his brain trying to come to grips with what was in front of him. He bent down again, ideas running through his mind. The man that had killed Dunbar had to be a big man, strong, probably taller than Dunbar in order to be able to swing the axe or machete and decapitate the body the way he had. The footprint in front of him was small in comparison to the one of the schoolteacher or the one from Dunbar and he shook his head, puzzled. He had expected something different, something bigger…but then some tall men have small feet, he told himself. Even so…this one was about a size seven or eight, more like a…woman’s size. He thought about that for a moment, holding the thought, and then finally letting it go. A woman had to be extremely agile, strong and capable of moving fast to be able to kill Dunbar in this fashion. She also had to have the killer instinct, he said to himself again. He had seen women killers before, plenty of them…but one using an axe…or a…machete…a damn sword maybe? But then…‘anything is possible in this crazy world we live and work in’, he thought, his fingers massaging his tired eyes, while his brain dealt with the problem at hand. He knew enough about murder investigations to realized that any thing was possible and that sometimes the things you thought were not pertinent to the investigation were the ones that came back to haunt you later on. So thinking about a woman killer was not out of the question. Still, his mind rebelled at the thought, knowing well he didn’t needed to be jumping to conclusions this early into the investigation.
‘No…that is beyond me right now’, he thought. An axe or a machete was a personal weapon and a person using one had to be extremely familiar with it; the weight and the way it handled. He just couldn’t see a woman using either one of the three weapons to kill a man in cold blood, and a cop no less. The killer had come to the man’s house, had in all probability, waited for him to get home, had brought the weapon with him, either an axe, a sword or a machete, a weapon that the killer was confident with, one that would not make any noise. Any of those weapons were hard to handle, awkward, especially for a woman. A better weapon of choice for a woman would have being a pistol or revolver. He mulled those thoughts for a while, the questions coming fast.
And then, what was the motive? He knew well that motive was of paramount importance when dealing with murder. There was something in here he was missing and if he could find the motive for the killing, then maybe he would be able to pinpoint the killer or at least work on a suspect. ‘This one is going to be a hard one to crack’, he thought, knowing that records of Dunbar’s arrests and cases would have to be combed. People would have to be checked to make sure someone that Dunbar had arrested wasn’t holding a grudge, a grudge bad enough to kill a cop in cold blood. He was also going to have to dig into the man’s personal life, see about girlfriends, other women in his life besides the wife. If Dunbar was banging somebody’s wife, then they had to look into a jealous husband or boyfriend somewhere.
Turner turned his attention back to the jogger, talking to him some more, finally letting the man go. The poor devil had a bad case of nerves and he could not really blame him for that.
Once the jogger was gone, he made his way back to the street. Now that he had identified the second set of footprints, he was able to follow them on the street, his eyes darting here and there. Some of the prints were obliterated, but the great majority of them were still visible. Some of the small footprints were heading in the direction of Dunbar’s house, which was to be expected and some of them were heading away from the area. He followed the ones heading in first, toward Dunbar’s house, reaching a house on the right hand side of the road. He stopped then, turning around to look at the crime scene from where he was standing. Whoever the killer was, he had a long stride, eating up the distance to Dunbar in no time. He swiveled his head again, bringing his attention back to the house in front of him. The steps to the doorway were full of snow and he could see the prints now clearly; small, the sole pattern quite visible. There was ample room at the top of the stairs in front of the house to hide and a person driving on the road and passing the house would be unable to spot anybody waiting patiently in the door entrance unless that person was moving. He glanced around, checking the mailbox and finding it empty. He walked around the house, peeking inside, and walked back around to the front. His right foot connected with something protruding from the snow and he bent down, reaching for it, his hand coming up with a real estate sign indicating the house was sold. He shook his head and sighed, inhaling deeply of the cold air. Some killers had all the luck and this one had been lucky. He had chosen the house next to Dunbar and it had been empty. He walked back to the front steps, bending down carefully this time, the green eyes fixed on the prints, searching for any thing that could give them a clue about the killer. No cigarette butts anywhere around, meaning the killer wasn’t a smoker or if he was, he was a careful one, taking the butts with him, leaving nothing. Turner left the house, his eyes taking in the footprints again, this time coming back from Dunbar’s place. He walked with his hands in his pockets, eyes glued to the ground and for several feet he was able to keep the prints in sight, until eventually they were gone, obliter
ated. He looked back to the crime scene, realizing that he was almost a block and a half away from them. The killer had walked to the crime area and had probably parked a vehicle somewhere close, away from the scene, of that he was now sure. He made his way back, talking to Holt, who sent a man immediately to the house. They would search the small entrance with a fine-tooth comb, and if something was there, they would find it. The way things were going for them right now, Turner thought dourly, the damn area would probably be sterile too. He turned his attention to the first officer on the scene, Seaman, a patrol officer with plenty of experience, looking at the pad with the names of people that had come to the scene
The noise of a car made him raise his head, the green eyes resting on a man in civilian clothes coming out of an unmarked unit. The Assistant Chief of Police had arrived.
“Great…just fucking great,” he said softly, throwing the cigarette butt on the ground and stepping on it. He jammed his hands inside the coat pockets and started walking back to the scene. The sooner he got this unpleasantness out of the way the better off he would be, he thought grimly. He gritted his teeth and thrust his jaw forward. The Assistant Chief of Police, Thomas Crowley, was his ex-wife’s uncle and ever since the divorce he had been giving Turner the cold shoulder and had made a few remarks that told him that his ex was talking a lot of crap that wasn’t true about them, but then…that was the way of some women, especially the ones that couldn’t take no for an answer. He knew that the marriage was dead long before she decided it was and that no matter how much he loved her, he was not going to quit his job or do anything different than what he was doing now. He was a cop when she married him, she knew the work he did, the ugliness of the world he inhabited. She hated his work and the long hours spent tracking killers and after two years it was over. She had moved back to the family mansion for a while and soon he realized that he was being perceived as the bad boy of the marriage, that the split was entirely his fault for not quitting the force, for not pleasing his wife.
(2005) 'Whispers In the Wind' Page 3
